


LF Babbies, Will Rspnd 2 “oi you!” (Or how Rule 15 got added)

by Cortesia



Series: Mrs. Aftby's Daycare; or, Kingsman UK [2]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Also James ain't dead, And also a vicious killer, Eggsy is a mama bear, Fluff and Crack, Harry is done with your shit, James is a big shit, M/M, Percival is a little shit, Recruits are the best babbies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4504914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cortesia/pseuds/Cortesia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Rules were a collection of rules that had been posted sometime in the eighties in the UK HQ’s staff break room.</p><p>Or, why recruits need to read The Rules before they try anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part the first: The Bakery.

**Author's Note:**

> I am Trash, and there’s this prompt I liked about Eggsy being a mother hen/terrifying mama bear. Also, I refuse to have killed James!Lance, and have instead severely maimed him, which prompted the need for a new Lancelot. Because Percilot needs to be a thing and I am a shameless whore for happy endings.

The first thing Merlin did with every new recruit cycle was explain that they’d be in seven hells’ worth of trouble if they snitched about Kingsman. Thus far, the only cohort to produce an agent who had already known how to keep his or her mouth shut was the previous one; both Lancelot and Guinevere had proven prior to their induction that they were more than capable of not saying a word. The former, because she’d accidentally walked in on a rather spirited sort of sexual escapade that her uncle and his partner-cum-spy had been engaged in and had promptly blackmailed them both into explaining what they did for a living in exchange for not outing Uncle Alastair and his “friend” James at mummy’s Boxing Day supper. The latter, of course, because of his unequivocal and nearly inborn grasp of “snitches get stitches and end up in ditches.”

The second thing Merlin did was explain the rules by which the recruits would be living for the next several months. The master list of them, he explained, was posted in both their dormitory and in the main break room at both HQ and in the tailor shop downtown. He’d only had to experience a recruitment six times in the almost 30 years he’d been working for Kingsman, and the rules had only ever changed to reflect security issues, basic personnel issues, and updated technology (and those damned social media networks). However, the last year-and-a-half had seen the introduction of a new rule, and one that Merlin privately thought was the most necessary:

_14a. Don’t fuck about with Guinevere. He will let Arthur hurt you and then he will make you tea and let you eat a homemade biscuit and will generally look very disappointed with you (if you’re lucky)._

This, of course, was immediately followed by:

_14b. Just don’t. It’s not worth the resulting paperwork._

Rule 14c was mentioned rather quickly thereafter:

_14c. Remember the exploding heads on V-day? That was Guinevere. Just don’t._

Of course, this being a new rule, and the only one that applied to a specific agent besides rule 8 ( _Don’t touch Percival’s things; they explode and then he giggles at the resulting fires._ ), the freshest batch of recruits felt it necessary to challenge this.

It did not end well for anyone involved.

(Except JB.)

***

It was a Monday that the new recruits arrived.

They arrived, fresh and eager, ready to become the next Bors. The old Bors had recently joined a very small and elite group of Kingsmen: retired. He had initially planned to retire before V-day, but had stayed on in the aftermath to help sort things out. Now that the world was in better hands, the elderly agent was fully intending to enjoy his well-deserved life in Mallorca. But, his absence meant a new round of recruits. And a new round of recruits meant a revision of The Rules.

The Rules were a collection of rules that had been posted sometime in the eighties in the UK HQ’s staff breakroom. The single sheet of typed paper had quickly become a mess of revisions and scribbles as agents, staff, and recruits tried to jockey for whatever it was that they fancied. The Merlin at the time, a kindly older man who had later been poached to MI-6 to run some sort of technical division there, had finally removed the paper and replaced it with an engraved plaque listing the original rules. Various pieces of the second plaque remained around HQ in desks and in display cases, but the original had been destroyed in an attempt by the then-Erec to acid-etch a rule declaring him the unofficial “leader” of the Kingsman agents.

When the current Merlin took over, he swiftly removed the iteration of The Rules that existed and simply terrorized the entire organization to streamline and follow what he posted. His methodology for going about this was, some suspected, true wizardry, but in reality it was a rather dull and seemingly minor action: he hired Mrs. Aftby as Head of Personnel. Mrs. Aftby was a spry woman of 60 at the time of her hiring, well-used to dealing with the squabbles and petty issues of toddlers. A lifetime of raising a brood of children of her own and running her local parish’s day crêche had left her with an unusually strong and pervasive ability to control groups of people. It helped, of course, that Merlin’s mother was of the same sort of dour stock as he, and together they were able to wrangle Kingsman into something a bit more deserving of the title of “International Spy Agency.”

But, as it is with these sorts of things, there were always agents who felt that these rules did not apply to them (Arthur, then Galahad) or did not apply to others (Lanceless, then Lancelot). Merlin took quite a lot of pleasure in disabusing them of this notion. Repeatedly. With slideshows. And explosives. Eventually, an accord was reached, and by the time the cohort that boasted two active agents as graduates came around, there was a sort of peace about Kingsman.

So when the recruits arrived, one of the first things that happened was that they were informed of the The Rules. Merlin gave the same sort of doom-and-gloom speech every time he had a new group, but the addition of Rule 14 merited special mention in his opinion.

“Dinnae do it. Whatever you think you’ll gain by fussing about with Guinevere, you won’t. And then you’ll end up in pain. And for the love of God, do not make fun of his name being Guinevere. He chose it himself.”

The recruits, full of vim and vigor, promptly ignored this warning.

***

“What is that smell?”

“What smell?”

“The _cinnamon_ smell, you idiot.”

Harry smiled a bit at hearing the exchange in the hallway outside his office. It was the first day the recruits for Bors’ position were free to move about the mansion of their own volition, and many had come upstairs to go for a jog with their puppy. Several had commented on the scent of baking cinnamon buns, though none were quite sure where it was coming from. Harry, however, knew. He stood, and journeyed out from his office, to another door three doors down to the left. It was the same aged English oak as the rest of the doors in this hallway, and only a small placard detailing that this was Guinevere’s office gave any indication of the interior.

Opening that door, he watched as Eggsy, now known as Guinevere, moved. The younger man was dressed in black trousers that accentuated his bum, a gunmetal button down with the sleeves rolled up, a matching black waistcoat and a tie the same jade green as his eyes. He also happened to be wearing an apron that bore an image of a cartoon pug in a snapback cap. Harry had it made for him at Christmastime, and Eggsy wore it whenever he baked.

The room Harry entered was half kitchen, half cafe. Eggsy had co-opted for his personal office what had turned out to be a storage room for esoteric trophies from days long since past, but instead of setting up a desk and computer, he personally gutted it over the period of several weeks and installed cooking space out of his own pockets. Barring days when he was on a mission, Eggsy baked weekly for the non-agent members of Kingsman. Of course, Harry, Roxy, and whichever agents he happened to be friends with that week were allowed to sample the treats, but as a rule only secondary staff were allowed to munch freely. The days when Eggsy was gone for a mission Mrs. Aftby baked. She had taken the young man under her wing as soon as it became clear he was going to be hanging around Kingsman for longer than it took to shoot him with an amnesia dart, and had set him about cooking and baking. Eggsy took to it like he took to breathing or acrobatic violence.

Now he baked regularly, and was known to cook delicious, simple meals for whomever happened to be on the premises at dinnertime. Steaming bowls and plates arrived under steel cloches to agents’ offices just minutes after they arrived back to HQ from hard missions. Vast quantities of soups and stews and chilis had made it into the mansion’s cafeteria-like freezers, the regular kitchen staff ecstatic that someone else was taking a bit of the burden of feeding the ravening hordes of Kingsman.

Mrs. Aftby sat in one of the large, overly comfortable chairs with her knitting, and smiled at Harry when he came in. If she wasn’t in Personnel in her cozy, cottage-like office, she was almost certainly at Eggsy’s little cafe, taking her tea and letting Eggsy serve her as many pastries and tidbits he could get away with.

“Good morning, Arthur. How’s your day been so far?”

“Quite comfortable, Mrs. Aftby.”

“Pish. It’s Rosemary. I’ve told you a hundred times.”

“Yes you have, and I still recall exactly how young I was when I met you and your son. You will always be my dear, evergreen Mrs. Aftby.”

The now-elderly woman smiled demurely at Harry and gave him a small wink.

“Your young Guinevere is getting quite good with my mother’s cinnamon bun recipe. Though he seems bound and determined to find some sort of God-awful icing for it. I keep telling him to keep it simple and just use a dusting of fine sugar, but does he listen? No! Worse than Ambrose.”

Harry stifled the knee-jerk giggle that always threatened to erupt when he heard Merlin’s real name. No one was entirely sure where in the lineup of Mrs. Aftby’s brood Merlin had been born, but it was clear that he doted on her in a way his numerous siblings did not. Harry privately thought it was because Merlin was terrified of sending his mother somewhere like a retirement community for fear of her safety, but Eggsy was convinced it was because Mrs. Aftby had threatened the man within an inch of his life. Their ongoing bet had yet to be answered, but Harry assumed it was only a matter of time.

“‘Ey, love!  Come ‘ere and eat this.” Eggsy held out a sticky, still-steaming cinnamon bun on a small saucer. His oven mitts were mismatched, one a flowery number Harry knew was stolen from his own kitchen at their shared house, and the other a knitted… thing that was clearly from Mrs. Aftby’s skillful hands.

“I would love nothing more.” Harry crossed the few steps it took to reach the counter and grasped the plate in one hand and leaned in and gave Eggsy a polished kiss.

“Back you get! I’ve got another ‘alf dozen of these bastards to bake, an’ twice that to glaze, an’ a meetin’ with Percival about whether we’re gonna get the Lances with paintballs or tasers for that stunt they pulled in Belfast two weeks back.”

Harry chuckled and sat down across from Mrs. Aftby.

“Darling, you’re well aware that James is no longer Lancelot. That ridiculous nickname you’ve all given him is immature at best, and insulting at worst.

“Yeah, but that don’t stop ‘im from being a right prick to anyone that ain’t Rox or Perce.”

Harry sighed. The curious case of James Morton-Worthington was one he’d inherited after V-day. The former Lancelot had been shot twice in the chest and had had his legs cut off below the knee by Valentine’s bodyguard-slash-lover Gazelle and her fearsome prosthetic blades. While they’d managed to get him home after his injuries, Kingsman had been scrambling to figure out Valentine’s plans and had been unable to reach him in time to reattach his legs. Now restricted to a wheelchair until his orthopedic surgeon deemed him fully healed enough to warrant prosthetics, he was effectively stuck. And a bored James was a dangerous, awful James. Roxy was granted immunity from his general grumpiness due to her being Percival’s niece. And Percival, of course, was spared all but the worst of it on account of being the other Mr. Morton-Worthington. Because of this sourpuss attitude, though, James had earned himself the disfavor of a majority of the Kingsmen, as well as the support staff. Someone had begun referring to him as “Lance-less” and the unfortunate moniker had stuck. Still, he made for a remarkable handler, and thus was set to work with his namesake agent quite often.

“Still, dear. A gentleman does not comment rudely upon someone’s disability or injury, and certainly does not do so in a malicious manner.”

“Malicious, my arse. I give ‘im fresh cookies every soddin’ week!”

“Just so. Please call him by his name, darling.”

Eggsy huffed in response and turned to the oven, deftly sliding the last tray of doughy buns inside to bake off.

The rest of the hour passed genially, with several members of the tech services team coming in to grab some treats and some tea. Percival stopped in to have a word with Harry, and pick up the small blue box of cookies Eggsy had in fact baked the previous night to take to James. However the mood turned wintry and bleak when the door opened with just a few minutes until breakfast hours were over and one of the recruits poked his head in.

“Oi! You!” Eggsy’s voice brooked no argument in it’s glacial tone. Harry privately mused that he must have picked it up from Merlin, given the way the recruit stopped with wide eyes and a look of startled shock on his face.

“Uh, yes Gwennie?”

Eggsy’s eyes narrowed and a good number of the staff present sat or stood straighter. Eggsy tilted his head in what Harry knew to be a coldly calculating move, one he’d seen over and over in footage from Eggsy’s most violent missions.

Suddenly, Eggsy smiled a large, pleasant smile. Harry was clearly familiar enough with Eggsy’s mannerisms to note immediately that this smile didn’t reach his eyes. Percival seemed to note the reaction as well, which didn’t surprise Harry. He and Eggsy got on like a house on fire, and spent a fair amount of time together outside of missions.

“Come on in, bruv! Just pullin’ out a fresh batch, yeah? Sit on down ‘ere and I’ll get you one all done up proper.”

The recruit eased into the small room, large eyes taking in the group of assembled staff and agents meekly.

“Uh, yes. Thank you sir. We all smelled the baking, but Merlin said there wasn’t a bakery….?”

“Nah, Merlin’s just sour ‘cause I don’ let ‘im back ‘ere to get any goods. Oh, Perce? Can you get me the bowl of icing we was workin’ on last night? I’ve run out o’ the stuff I ‘ave out here, and you know I just put the stuff last night back in the fridge. Got me ‘ands full an’ all.”

Percival shot Eggsy what was a clearly amused glance and said, “Certainly, Guinevere. The cream cheese or the special blend?”

“Oh the blend. These lads been workin’ ‘ard. Might as well give ‘im the good stuff, yeah?”

“Be right back.”

Harry watched Eggsy remove the final batch of buns from the oven and scrape one off onto a delicate saucer. Eggsy then reached for a new metal spatula from the bain marie he kept his utensils in and awaited Percival’s return.

It came soon enough. The rather unassuming man carried a small Pyrex bowl with cling film stretched over the top. Inside was some sort of white colored paste. Harry knew right away that this wasn’t going to end well when he saw the twinkle of mischief in Percival’s eye as he handed the bowl over to Eggsy.

“You’re the guv, Perce.” Eggsy removed the cling film and took a large dollop of the paste and smeared it over the top of the cinnamon bun. He then set the spatula down, dusted the “icing” with cinnamon sugar, and handed the recruit the saucer with a wink and a happy smile.

The recruit happily ate it all and left with a smug smile, a box of cinnamon buns with special icing (“to share with your friends, there’s a lad”), a wave from Eggsy, and a a ticking time bomb in his stomach.

“Did… did you just rig a recruit to _explode_ , darling?” Harry looked askance at Percival and Eggsy.

“Nah. Me’n Perce cooked up a batch of laxative-icing to fuck with James an’ Rox last night, and I figure this is a better use of it, yeah? ‘Sides it ain’t like you weren’t thinkin’ o’ somethin’ mean to do, yeah?”

Harry paused a moment to consider that in his own mind, he’d been slowly dismembering the recruit for daring to call Eggsy “Gwennie,” and nodded in solemn agreement.

“There’s a good lad,” said Mrs. Aftby from the corner.

***

Life went on, some recruits got sent home, and Eggsy baked. After the Cinnamon Bun Event, as it was being called, six recruits spent a full 72 hours in medical, and three of those left of their own volition, unable to stand the thought of crossing the slightly-mad Kingsmen on accident. Those remaining seemed like a good lot, and few incidents happened after things quieted down. As it happened, however, things didn’t always calm at Kingsman.

Eggsy had been grounded to HQ for several weeks after a particularly tenuous mission had ended with him contracting some sort of tropical fever. Though he was very nearly recovered after just two weeks, a persistent cough (and Harry’s meddling in the medical files) kept him home for another month and a half. During this time, he joined Merlin in helping to train the recruits whenever possible. Eggsy claimed it was just a way to kill time, but it only took a matter of days for all of Kingsman to recognize that Eggsy was besotted with the recruits. He led their runs with sing-song drill chants, showed them some of the more advanced tricks to teach their puppies, and became their go-to agent when they needed advice on how to deal with the others. So despite Harry’s insistence on not coddling the recruits and to simply stay home and rest, Eggsy became a secondary instructor.

What sealed Eggsy’s fate as being forever known as Recruit Team Mother was the time Gareth walked in to the recruit barracks, ready to see them snap to fearful attention, but instead found them all blissed out and napping in a circle on blankets around Eggsy who was reading Harry Potter aloud to them and petting one smaller girl’s hair in absent circles.

 

(“What? I do the voices right, and they all just drop into some kind of fuckin’ subspace or somethin’. It’s like they all got trained up as kiddos by Pavlov’s soddin’ librarians to just get all gooey when someone drones at them in a calm and quiet voice!”)

They had reached the point where the recruits would be given wilderness survival training. Kitted out with the bare essentials, they were dropped from altitude into a remote Scottish forest with the instructions “Don’t die. I dinnae want to deal with the paperwork.” issuing from Merlin’s mouth as they jumped.

All was well the first two nights. The recruits made a base camp, took turns hunting and scavenging, and set up what even Merlin grudgingly admitted was a rather ingenious method of collecting rainwater in their canteens using only stolen bailing wire and a recruit’s silicone breast pads cannibalized from her bra.

Then their signals went dark and all hell broke loose.

“What _exactly_ do you mean when you say _YOU LOST THEM?!_ ”

If Eggsy weren’t already incredibly aroused from watching Harry’s hair fall from it’s oiled and defined style, the growl and shout he sent Merlin’s way would have done the trick. He shook his head to clear the lustful thoughts and discreetly adjusted himself as he turned a more attentive ear to the proceedings.

“I meant just that. 30 minutes ago, all of their trackers went dark. I’d think it was some kind of accident or interference, but they blinked out one at a time as if they were being disabled somehow. I’ve already scrambled Gareth and Tristan to go check on them, discreetly of course. In case something did simply interfere and they’re still out there just surviving, I dinnae want to interrupt.”

Harry was as content with that answer as he could be given the situation, but things turned grim after a few hours when Gareth and Tristan informed Merlin that they had found the smoking remains of the camp, but no sign of the recruits. Harry sighed his Arthur Sigh.

Eggsy had only heard Harry sigh like that twice before, and each time it was for something so gut-wrenchingly bad that Eggsy had immediately gone out to the closest fine chocolatier and bought Harry as many expensive truffles as he could carry. The man’s sweet tooth was as legendary as his disdain for missions going wrong and non-designer clothing.

“Find them.”

“Aye, I’m trying. And dinnae take that tone with me, Harold Pembroke Hart. I _will_ call your mother and tell her you were being mean to me.”

“Sod off, Ambrose. _Your_ mother likes me better than you anyway.”

“You cheeky…”

“Oi! Gents!” Eggsy interrupted the older men, who turned their twin myopic gazes upon the younger face of Guinevere. Eggsy meekly shoved his non-regulation (“Eggsy darling, stop bringing outside tech into the office; we’ll get hacked and then Merlin will win my bet with him.”) iPad into their faces and hit the PLAY button on a private YouTube video aptly named Kingsman Hostages.

The three of them watched the video, each taking in everything they could about the grainy footage. Clearly the recruits were all still alive, or had been when it was filmed, and each seemed mostly unharmed. Whomever had kidnapped them was wearing a balaclava, muffling his voice along with keeping his face from being seen. Smart, yes, but then he had to go and ruin it by wearing a uniform with a name tag on it.

“This should be fun,” muttered Merlin, and Eggsy and Harry could only nod in grim satisfaction.


	2. But what's a Guinevere?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> http://bit.ly/1M68T3g
> 
> Our sweet Eggsy Roll.

Merlin found them.

Or, more accurately, he found the man responsible for kidnapping them.

“His name is Graham Hesketh, and it looks like he was Charlie’s cousin or something. Apparently being a grumpy berk runs in the family.” Merlin zoomed in on a photo of the man indecently groping a blurry-faced girl at some sort of club taken from his Facebook page, an image that did nothing to refute Merlin’s mutterings.

“Wait, so this is fuckin’ _Charlie’s_ fault?! I thought we blew ‘is ‘ead up, the wanker!” Eggsy paced behind Merlin, stopping every so often to bounce lightly on his toes. His adrenaline was up, and now the knowledge that whatever this was was simply an attempt to take petty revenge he was ready to strike out armed with nothing but a ka-bar and his own two hands.

“We did, but apparently only his particular branch of the Hesketh tree decided to join up with the megalomaniac. This gent seems to be under the impression that Kingsman is responsible for his _entire_ family’s downfall, economic issues included.”

The Heskeths, much like any family who had invested heavily in Valentine’s telecom and technology company, had lost a significant sum of money in a post V-day world. However, unlike the millions of people who only lost that part of their investments, the Heskeths had also been heavily invested in all sorts of barely- or not-at-all-legal schemes, and lost the rest of their vast fortune in the months following V-day. Kingsman and many other governmental agencies had worked together to take down the growing crime syndicates that thought they could start up amid the chaos, and lots of people were finding themselves in hot water, so to speak, for their involvement with those.

“Well, we technically _are_ …” supplied Harry unhelpfully.

“Not fuckin’ ‘elpin’, ‘Arry. That bastard ‘as me babies.”

Merlin nearly choked on his own tongue hearing this. Harry was in a similar state.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What? I been trainin’ ‘em, keepin’ ‘em sane, makin’ sure they got what they need. They’re basically my babies. Pretty sure that makes you daddy, ‘Arry.” Eggsy blinked coquettishly at Harry, though his voice was full of practiced innocence.

Harry resolutely pushed down the inopportune spike of lust that came with hearing Eggsy call him _daddy_ and turned to Merlin, rolling with the joke.

“I think that makes you grandfather, Ambrose. _You_ trained Eggsy after all.”

“Oh no. You dinnae bring me into this. Your bedroom games stay in the bedroom. Dinnae bring them into my office.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean, Ambrose.”

Ignoring Harry, Merlin watched the video again, and sighed.

“We’ve got no idea where they are. This video is too grainy to make anything else out. I’m honestly not sure where to go from here.”

Eggsy made a grumpy duck face for a bit, but turned his head in thought.

“Wait. Who the fuck is filmin’?”

“Well, from the angle we can assume it’s likely a self-shot video. Why?”

“Then why don’t we just ‘ack the fuckin’ cellphone ‘e shot it with, bruv? Get ‘is GPS and whatnot. ‘Cause if that grainy piece of shite video were shot on a professional camera, I’m the fuckin’ Queen.”

The twin looks of dumb fascination on Harry and Merlin’s faces was well worth it, Eggsy mused to himself.

“Of course that stupid bastard filmed this with his bloody cellphone. Well done, Eggsy.” Merlin sounded almost impressed with Eggsy, tapping away at his computer as he spoke.

“Aaaaaaaand…. there. Got him.”

The large monitors did some zooming in, and a bird’s eye view not unlike Google Maps displayed a large map of south Edinburgh. There was a little pip over one of the warehouse-looking buildings, and Merlin tapped on it with his finger.

“That’s where the phone data has him. Accurate within 200 meters, so he’s around there somewhere. Who would you like to send, Arthur? Tristan and Gareth are still up at the camp site, so they could get there fairly quickly, but I dinnae think they’re kitted out for an extraction.”

“I’m goin’. No arguments, no questions.” Eggsy’s jaw tensed as he spoke, whatever boiling beneath his skin close to surfacing.

“Absolutely not, Guinevere. You’re still on medical leave.” Harry hated having to slip on his Arthur persona with Eggsy, but he knew it was necessary.

“Arthur. With respect. Unless you’re plannin’ on stoppin’ me yourself, get outta my fuckin’ way.”

Just as Eggsy had only rarely heard Arthur sigh his Arthur Sigh, Harry had only once before seen this particular glint of ice in Eggsy’s, no _Guinevere’s_ eyes.

Four months prior, Eggsy had been sent on a mission to Belgium. He’d been sent undercover as a tutor to a wealthy politician’s children, the man deeply afraid of some political enemies’ threats towards his family. While Kingsman generally didn’t involve themselves in political matters, the politician in question was attempting to completely reform some very conspicuous and corrupt branches of the Belgian government, and thus was deemed necessary for the stability of the region. So when he began receiving detailed and brutal death threats against his young children, he was rightly concerned.

So Kingsman sent Eggsy. A natural with children (and children masquerading as adults, _“yes I mean you Percival, do keep up.”_ ), he was their first choice because of both his prowess and record, and because he would be capable of keeping the two little girls calm and happy if the situation went tits up.

And it did. Spectacularly.

Between flying bullets, three and a half car chases, a wrecked tea party, and an oddly specific villainous monologue featuring a machete and the threat of being fed to lions, one of the politician’s daughters was injured. It wasn’t serious, and nor should it have slowed down the group. In fact what had happened was that one of the big baddies accidentally dropped a mug of coffee during the aforementioned monologue, and one of the little girls got a first degree burn on her ankle.

Eggsy, who up until this point had been playing along with the idea of being a simple tutor, calmly stopped the bad guy from monologuing, untied himself from the chair he’d been rather lazily strapped to, and _proceeded to lay waste to the entire room._ He shut off his glasses after turning them around and giving Merlin a cheeky wink, and went to work.

When the glasses feed came back online, it showed the smoking remains of a burned out warehouse, two little girls happily playing tag in a nearby field (one of whom had a small “bandage” made from Eggsy’s emerald green silk tie wrapped around her ankle), and Guinevere’s face. His manically grinning, blood-drenched face, eyes sparkling with almost zen-like nothingness. _There was blood in his teeth._

And so, with the memory of this at the front of his mind, Arthur conceded the point.

“Fine. But you’re taking more than a Rainmaker and a knife. I don’t want you getting there, darling, and discovering that there are more assailants in hiding than you expected.”

_“Fuck yes, ‘Arry.”_

***

The recruits had been forced into a smelly warehouse. It was damp, it was cold, and there were no indications of rescue. They were seated on the freezing concrete floor in a circle. The maniac who had kidnapped them was off elsewhere in the warehouse, and is was growing darker by the minute as night fell. Their zip-tied hands and feet were beginning to go numb and they were hungry. So, of course, they started to plot.

“We should try and overwhelm him! This has to be part of the test!”

“Fuck you, if it was part of the test, why would he have drugged us?”

“Guys, quiet down for a second. What if we create a small diversion and make a run for it? We don’t know how many guys there are guarding us?”

“Trust me, bruvs, this ain’t a part of the test.”

“We know that, Guinevere, we’re just trying to- Guinevere?!” The recruit did an honest to God double take at the grinning agent now sitting among them in the circle of kidnapped shame. He'd slipped in unnoticed.

“Shut the fuck up, babbies. Don’ want Mr. Nuts-fer-Brains to know there’s an extra recruit, yeah?”

“Yes, but where’d you come from?!”

“Your mum’s Fifty Shades dungeon. Your dad says “mmmmpmpmpmhmmhhmpmppmh” which I think means “hi,” but ‘e had a gimp mask on at the time, so…. shut the fuck up an’ let me do my fuckin’ job.”

Guinevere assessed the recruits, noting that any injuries were superficial. He had his glasses turned on and clicked over into “night mode” so that Merlin and Arthur could see what he was seeing despite the darkness.

“Right. You lot. Stay the fuck ‘ere, and don’t get in my fuckin’ way. If It looks like shit’s about to go pear-shaped, get to the roof. Tristan an’ Gareth’s got the chopper inbound in five, yeah?”

“S-sir? What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna do a Kay, two Tristan’s, a Harry, definitely a Percival, and then maybe a Harry-and-Merlin.” The grin he gave the recruits was positively menacing, so they did not press the issue further.

“Right. I’m off, me.”

With that pronouncement, Guinevere vaulted up, and barreled into the deeper recesses of the warehouse.

All was silent for a moment. Then it was not. Though they could not see what was going on, they could clearly hear the sounds of fighting behind them.

“You… you! You punched him in the dick!” The recruits stared at each other as a shout from a nameless goon was heard.

“Yeah an’ I’d punch you in the dick if it weren’t time for a Tristan!”

The sound of snapping bone and a man’s gurgling death rattle reached the recruits, followed swiftly by the thump of a body hitting the cold floor. More grunting and punching noises rang out, and another snap-wheeze-thud hit their ears.

“Should we wait for Guinevere or just go? He said Tristan and Gareth were going to be on the roof.”

“I’m staying. I want to know what a ‘Harry-and-Merlin’ is.”

The recruits waited, and were rewarded with the sight of at least ten armed thugs running past them towards the sounds of fighting. The recruits all strained to look at the fighting, but all they saw was the first muzzle flash.

When the shots began, the unmistakeable snap-thwap of an umbrella opening up could be heard, and though the shots continued, it became very evident to the recruits that they were being reduced in number by virtue of the fact that thugs were dying (if the soft grunts and stabby noises were to be believed).

Soon all that was left was the sound of the dying and one clearly begging villain.

“Please! Don’t… don’t kill me! I can give you money! Women! I have a boat in Antigua! Do you want it? It’s yours!”

“Bruv. I’d let you die quick, yeah? But you took me babbies, and that’s just not done, is it? So open up, eat this cinnamon bun and count down from 120.”

A slap and a muffled, squishy noise was heard, and then Guinevere appeared out of the darkness and gunsmoke. He gave the recruits a sunny smile and pulled out a clearly-bloody knife from somewhere. He began cutting their bonds and once all were free, he stood up and gathered near to him.

“Alright, ducks. We’re ‘eading up and out. Gareth and Tristan’s got medics with ‘em in case any of you are banged up. Don’ argue with ‘em, just let the medical team work. Aye?”

“Yes sir,” offered the small female recruit who had had Eggsy playing with her hair during Harry Potter Naptime.

Guinevere nodded at them all and they made for the roof. True enough, the chopper was waiting, hovering above the derelict building. Guinevere tapped his glasses and asked, “Why ain’t you landed?”

He focused on the responding voice and nodded.

“Yeah, I understand.” Guinevere turned to the recruits and shouted over the rotor noise: “Right, babbies, up you go. Roof’s too unstable for a proper landin’, so we’re shimmyin’ up ropes.”

The recruits moved, and within the space of half a minute, they were all safely ensconced in the large helicopter’s belly, medical teams fussing over them. They watched puzzled as Guinevere reached into his suit pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes. He carefully lit one with a lighter-slash-grenade and took a long drag on it. He gave the recruits a winning smile, flicked the cigarette out the opened bay door, and watched a comedically large explosion envelop the tiny butt. The recruits gasped at the sudden heat and pressure, and as they watched the warehouse go up in flames, Guinevere just smirked at them and blew a smoke ring.

Tristan groaned and dug about in his pockets for something. Gareth, whooped a bit at the explosion and held his hand out expectantly to Tristan.

“I told you he’d finished the explosive icing compound. Pay up.”

“Yeah, and _I_ said he’d end with a ‘Harry-and-Merlin,’ not a Percival!”

“Sod off and pay up!”

“Bloody lucky they didn’t have to see a Guinevere. Don’t know if you can get that much blood out of your teeth.”

The vaguely-green looking recruits looked back at Guinevere, who sat there placidly listening to the older agents argue. Apparently they didn’t want to know what a “Guinevere” was. One brave soul finally asked quietly, “Guinevere? Sir? What’s a “Harry-and-Merlin?”

 **  
** All they received in return was a cheeky wink.


	3. The Rules

Kingsman Rules, Masterlist

Updated 6 May, 2015 - per Merlin

 

1\. Don’t talk about Kingsman to anyone who is not Kingsman.

_1b. This includes your mum, Tristan, I don’t care how high her clearance is or whether she worked for MI-6 or not._

 

2\. All After-Action Reports are to be filed properly, promptly, and in triplicate.

_2b. Texts and emails do not count._

_2c. Neither do Snapchats of the actual paperwork, Lancelot/Guinevere._

 

3\. Please label all food in the staff refrigerator. This is non-negotiable as it will be eaten or exploded otherwise.

 

4a. If you are staying overnight in HQ for any reason other than a direct order from Medical, you must sign in with Mrs. Aftby in Personnel to receive a room key, bedding, and appropriate level of cable television clearance.

_4b. She also has the wifi password, you bastards. Stop bothering me for it._

_4c. If Mrs. Aftby says “no,” what in God’s name makes you think I can do anything about it? She’s my mum. I’d like to stay on her good side._

 

5\. If you are in Medical, stay in Medical. Otherwise they have orders to drug you and keep you there and they. Will. Do it.

 

6a. The puppies are only for recruits. All other pets must be approved by, and appropriately documented by, Mrs. Aftby in Personnel.

_6b. “Pets” is defined as a creature belonging to one of these three groups: dog, cat, fish in situ aquaria. Any other animal brought on to the premises without belonging to one of the aforementioned groups AND possessing appropriate documentation from Mrs. Aftby will be deemed “game” and added to a stew and/or meat pie._

 

7a. Recruits must be well groomed, well dressed, and well spoken at all times. Any infraction of this rule will result in escalating punishments up to and including summary execution (for repeat offenders).

7b. List of permissible clothing designers (not all-inclusive; see Arthur for a larger selection and/or lessons on couture clothing): Armani (tailored, not rack), Hugo Boss, Alexander McQueen (professional, not haute), Huntsman, Kingsman, Westwood, Prada, Hérmès, _Jeremy Scott for adidas._

**_7c._ Thanks, bruv! - ~~Eggsy~~ Guinevere**

**7d. _:( - Harry_**

 

8\. Don’t touch Percival’s things; they explode and then he giggles at the resulting fires.

 

9a. Personal toiletries and effects are to be kept in each agent or recruits specific office, locker, closet or footlocker. Any items found outside of these and not in current use will be added to the monthly auction.

_ 9b. This includes your car keys, Lanceless, you forgetful daft git. Thanks for the Jag. - Kay _

 

10a. Agents and recruits will be referred to by either their proper names, code names, or selected nicknames/diminutives as directed by the person or their family/spouse/guardian/proxy etc.

** 10b. “Lanceless” counts as his name. It’s good for his ego. - Percival. **

 

11\. Arthur must always be accompanied by at least two agents whenever visiting recruits, for their health and safety.

 

12a. Recruits: There is not an official Kingsman bakery. Stop asking about it.

12b. Agents: There is not an official Kingsman bakery. Stop asking about it.

_12c. Technical Services, Personnel, Mrs. Aftby, IT, Fleet, and Maintenance: The bakery is three doors down from Arthur’s office. It’s open M-W-F during breakfast hours (6a - 8a), or when Guinevere specifies. Bulk orders can be taken via Arthur, Merlin, or Guinevere. Please allow 72 hours notice for orders over 50 pcs._

 

13\. Any person receiving a paycheque from Kingsman in any capacity is expected to donate to the Lee Unwin Memorial Family Fund, formerly the mandatory Kingsman Widows’ and Orphans’ Fund. This is non-negotiable.

 

14a. Don’t fuck about with Guinevere. He will let Arthur hurt you and then he will make you tea and let you eat a homemade biscuit and will generally look very disappointed with you (if you’re lucky).

14b. Just don’t. It’s not worth the resulting paperwork.

_14c. Remember the exploding heads on V-day? That was Guinevere. Just don’t._

**  
** 15\. Don't eat the golden icing.


End file.
